From the recording EMPIRE
The standard histories taught today, from grade school to graduate school, are carefully constructed lies that seek to erase the majority of the planet and elevate white men to a status that is as false as it is bloody.
Lyrics
She heard the music of the stars, at quiet-houred dawn
And read the turning of the world, upon the heavens drawn
And from her splendid tower, standing high beside the sea
The city spread out glorious
Magnificent and fine
With artistry of engineering
Found in every line
But still the Scholar wondered how the city came to be
Even as the history books proclaimed divinity
And studying the ancient records left her more confused
She could see some things were missing
By the holes they left behind
And the only things remaining
Were a movie actor's lines
There's a silence in the archives where the stories ought to be
I can find no record of this people's history
No mother's love, no singing, no quiet poetry
For the pages have been washed as white as me
And so the Scholar built a map of all the silence found
Shadows in the architecture, voices underground
A pirated cartography to sail beyond the known
And find if there be monsters
lurking in the sea
Who would offer up their secrets
and solve her mystery
When the map was finished, she wept at what she she knew
And the monster in the mirror asked her what to do
The shadows in the architecture blood upon the stone
The iron boots of Empire
Marching from the sea
had torn apart a people
And erased their history
There's a silence in the archives where the stories ought to be
I can find no record of this people's history
No mother's love, no singing, no quiet poetry
For the pages have been washed as white as me
And so the Scholar vanished and was never seen again
Until a dazed traveler, told where he had been
When he met a ragged woman dancing madly by the sea
She grabbed him and she kissed him
Knelt upon the ground
Commanded listen remember
Everything I found
She sang to me the stories where the silence used to be
I heard the haunted thunder of this people's history
There was mother's love, and singing, and quiet poetry
And the music held the colors of the ever-changing sea
The pages were the colors of the sea
There's a silence in the archives where the stories ought to be
I could find no record of this people's history
No mother's blood, no singing, no quiet poetry
For the pages had been washed as white as me